


Late-Night Visits

by Vamillepudding



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur needs a hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Praise Kink, Protective Eames (Inception)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 09:58:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19315852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vamillepudding/pseuds/Vamillepudding
Summary: When a team member drops out unexpectedly, the only one available is Arthur's ex boyfriend. Despite Arthur's assurances that it's No Big Deal, Eames quickly realises that it is, in fact, a very big deal.





	Late-Night Visits

The night before their job officially starts, there is a knock on the door to Eames’ hotel room right at the cusp of midnight. He opens it, years of criminal experience ensuring he does so with a gun in hand, and finds Arthur in the hallway, looking apprehensive under Eames’ suspicious gaze. He doesn’t blink at the weapon pointed at him; he probably has one of his own, just out of sight. Dreamshare creates bloody distrusting bastards. 

“Can I come in?” Arthur asks, which alarms Eames more than the visit itself. They all keep odd hours, after all. Usually, though, Arthur wouldn’t ask. Usually, Arthur would know he doesn’t need to. 

In lieu of an answer that might give too much away, he steps aside and allows Arthur to enter. He doesn’t expect him do sit down; Arthur doesn’t. Instead he fidgets, like he always does when something is bothering him. It’s a habit he’s never quite managed to get rid of, and Eames is oddly glad of it. 

Eames waits for a bit, but when nothing seems to be forthcoming, he asks mildly, “Was there something you wanted?”

The ever-so-slight flinch is the only tell that Arthur is uncomfortable. His body language and facial expression practically ooze confidence, and he now makes a point to look Eames in the eye as he says, “Tabitha dropped out of the job, so we need another forger-slash-extractor. I put out the word, and no one is available on such short notice, so I wanted to ask if you can take over. You’d get paid more, of course.” 

Bewildered, Eames says, “I can, but as you made sure to mention to me not less than eight times, this job is on a tight schedule. Extraction and forging is no problem, but we still need a second forger. Might I remind you that you were very clear that for some reason, we need two forgers for this?” 

“I know,” Arthur says. He’s still looking at Eames directly, his hands steady, legs slightly apart, like he hasn’t a care in the world. Eames kind of want to ask if Arthur practiced that pose in the mirror. “I can get us a new forger.”

“I thought you said no one is available.”

“No one who also does extracting is.”

“And plain forgers are?” Eames asks, not because he needs the clarification, but to buy himself the luxury of a couple more seconds in which he can contemplate which forger he knows of who isn’t also willing to extract. 

“Just one,” Arthur says, and then doesn’t say anything else.

A bit testily, Eames says, “Arthur, I can’t tell if you’re actively trying to be irritating, or if it’s just part of your personality at this point, but if there was any point to this late-night visit, please don’t rush into it. No, really, take your time.” 

Finally, Arthur breaks the eye contact. 

“So, there’s something else I need to tell you, and you have to promise not to make a big deal out of this.” 

If he were more prone to romanticism, this is where his heart would swell up, where he’d hope Arthur came to his room at midnight to make some grand love confession. But this is Arthur, and he’s Eames, and so Eames that whatever Arthur wants, it’s not this. So he says, allowing his voice to grow sharper, “I don’t _have_ to do anything.” 

“I know,” Arthur tells him. He looks tired, Eames thinks suddenly, the bags under his eyes more pronounced than usual.

Just like that, he feels sorry for snapping. “But if you could just – shit.” Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. 

Eames is starting to get a bit – not scared, but wary, perhaps. Wary of what Arthur is about to tell him, wary of what can possibly be so bad that it would cause Arthur this much distress. He’s just about to tell Arthur – he doesn’t know what, exactly, maybe that “it’s alright”, however fucking irrational that may be. But he never gets the chance. Arthur clearly decides that the best course of action is to just get it over with. 

In a rush, he says. “Like I said, there’s only one forger who isn’t already working a job and willing to step in, and I’ve already tried to think of something else but this is the only way I can see things working out, so – basically, my ex-boyfriend is coming along on this job, and it wasn’t a good breakup, and he’s going to say some things about – anyway, I need you to ignore him. And, if at all possibly, I need you not to sleep with him.”

Eames doesn’t even know where to start with this. So he takes the familiar route of teasing. “Afraid he’ll tell everyone you suck in bed, are you?”

Arthur blushes and doesn’t say anything. Eames sighs.

***

He does Arthur the courtesy of waiting until he’s left before trying to find out just who exactly this ex-boyfriend is that has Arthur all tied up in knots – even more than usual, that is. Must be pretty juicy stuff, Eames figures, if Arthur is this anxious about it. His plan is to find out as much gossip about this as he can, and then tease Arthur about it come morning. 

Seeing as he has nothing much to go on besides ‘male & used to fuck Arthur’, his usual methods of research don’t get him anywhere. Thinking not for the first time that Dreamshare is sorely in need of an illegal underground version of Facebook, he turns off his laptop and calls the man whose reaction to Eames’ getting shot in the shoulder on a job was to immediately leave with the words “Every man for himself, Eames” – and who, as it so happens, is also Arthur’s closest and possibly only friend. 

Cobb picks up on first ring and greets him with, “What’s wrong with Arthur?”

“What’s wrong with – fucking nothing is wrong with Arthur,” Eames says irritably. 

“Oh,” Cobb says after a pause. “So he’s not dead? Dying? Hospitalised?”

“No,” Eames grits out. Something occurs to him. “ _Should_ he be?”

Maybe Arthur’s being all weird not because of some random bloke who Eames has never even heard of and therefore can’t be that big of a deal, but because he’s suffering from an incurable disease. Eames can just imagine it, Arthur keeping this illness hidden from everyone, and then one day he’ll just collapse at work and Eames will want to call an ambulance but Arthur will stop him, just needing to say something, just one last thing - 

Yeah. He’s got to stop watching soap operas. 

Cobb, who clearly does not care for Eames’ internal monologue, says, “No!”, thus destroying all heroic fantasies Eames may have been imagining. “Although I do have a list of his allergies, if you want-“

“I’m sure Arthur can take care of himself,” Eames says, deciding to put a stop to this madness and just get to the point.

“What can you tell me about Arthur’s last, say, five boyfriends?”

“Five?” Cobb echoes. “There’s just the one.”

“ _Is there_?” Eames says, immediately interested. “Hmm. Really? So about Arthur’s sexual history, how would you rate-“

Cobb hangs up on him. 

Midnight has turned into 1 has turned into 2 has turned into 3 am, so Eames goes to bed. After he’s already turned out the lights, he grabs his phone one last time and sends Arthur a single text. It stays unanswered; Eames is not surprised.

The text simply reads: 

:-)

***

Not all jobs are in fashionable cities like Paris, Singapore, or Bangkok. Some of them are, and it’s Eames’ privilege as being unarguably the best in his chosen profession to only pick the ones that are in places he’d like to see, or places he’d like to revisit.

Usually, that’s what he does. But sometimes, he gets an email by Arthur – who has never once picked a job based on the city it takes place in, and whom Eames has been desperately in love with for four years now, and who occasionally seems to think Eames would be a good team addition. Those times, Eames basically drops whatever he’s doing at the time of the email (Arthur inexplicably despises calls) and comes running. 

Occasionally he wonders if Arthur knows this, but he supposes it doesn’t really matter either way. If Arthur knows, he’s never done anything about it, and if he doesn’t know, then Eames is not going to tell him. Unrequited love is cause for great unhappiness for a great many people, but not for Eames. It’s long since become a part of his personality, being in love with someone who doesn’t want him.

Four years are a long time, and he’s had ample time listening to ABBA songs while staring at the one picture he has of Arthur. These days he rarely thinks about it, and when he does, well – he figures that all in all, compared with other one-sided affections, he’s doing alright. 

Anyway, that’s how he ended up in Caister Falls, a small town in Illinois, here on behalf of Sandy and Mandy Caulfield, to perform an extraction on their triplet sister, Brandy. Since it’s a fairly straight-forward job, no more than two levels, and simple enough for Arthur to double as point man and architect, they should be out of here in three weeks. Have to be, anyway, because Sandy and Mandy were apparently very clear on how they want this job to go over as quickly as possible. 

Family drama is number 2 of the most popular extraction reasons in Dreamshare, right after Relationship Drama. The fact that it’s triplets is the one thing that adds spice to it, and it’s presumably the only reason that Arthur took the job.

That, and the significant payment. 

Arthur also clearly thought that Eames should take the job, too, and sent him a detailed list of reasons on why. So Eames did. 

He’s never been in Caister Falls before, and has no desire to come back after this job is done.

He would, though.

If Arthur sent an email.

***

On his way to the warehouse the next morning, Eames stops by a coffeeshop. It’s only a few minutes until their set meeting, which means Arthur has probably been there for hours, and it’s roughly around now that his lack-of-caffeine-induced headache will start. 

True to Eames’ prediction, Arthur is already settled on one of the three desks when Eames arrives. There is no paper surrounding his computer yet; Eames knows this is going to change very soon. Arthur claims to prefer digital research, but always ends up printing everything out, anyway. 

Arthur finishes typing something on his laptop before looking up, just as Eames places a cup of coffee next to him. At the sight of this, Arthur gives Eames just the hint of a smile. 

“Thanks.” 

Smiles and gratitude are good, Eames thinks. They mean that Cobb hasn’t told on him yet, the risk of which had been part of the reason for the coffee run. Well, that, and the fact that a steady caffeine supply is the only thing Arthur will allow Eames to do for him without going into immediate Defence Mode. 

“You’re welcome,” Eames tells him cheerfully. He makes a show of looking around the whole room, then back at Arthur, before adding, “No exes here yet?” 

“He texted. He’s running late,” Arthur says, gaze glued back to the screen now. “Go ahead and read a book or something, it could be a while.” 

Suppressing the irrational urge to ask Arthur exactly how often he texts his ex, Eames sits right on the edge of Arthur’s desk and says, “Read a book while you’re working? Perish the thought.”

“I’m not working. I’m playing Minesweeper.”

Eames laughs and leans into the screen only to realise that yes, Arthur is indeed playing Minesweeper. “Arthur. No. You can’t.,” he says, leaving a dramatic pause between each phrase. “What has the world come to?” 

Arthur ignores him in favour of clicking his mouse a couple times. Considering this, Eames pulls over one of the office chairs, so that he’s now sitting next to Arthur. The latter says, “Eames?” and leaves it at that. 

“Just watching you play, Darling,” Eames tells him. Arthur appears to be thinking this over for a second, then shrugs.

“Alright.”

They take turns for an hour, and just as Arthur finishes a level, the doors open and in comes a guy who, honestly, can really only be one person. 

Arthur’s only ex-boyfriend. 

Eames has spent his entire life training himself out of obvious mannerisms, but he can’t really help but stare at this man, to whom Arthur now says, “Richard, this is Eames. Eames, meet Richard”, and still Eames stares at meet-Richard with absolute fascination, and then Richard walks up to him and extends a hand and informs him, “I’m Richard,” and Eames takes the hand automatically while privately thinking how unnecessary this second introduction was and also how easy it would be to nick Richard’s wallet right now, but he’s also aware of both Arthur and Richard watching him, so he introduces himself, also unnecessarily, and then the audience holds its breath as the remaining greeting, the one between Richard and Arthur, surely must take place now, and epic disaster waiting to happen, and Richard does indeed turn his attention on his ex-boyfriend at last, and out of his mouth come the words everyone has been waiting for: 

“Hi, Arthur. Good to see you again. Is this my desk?” His gaze falls on the screen of Arthur’s computer, where the game is still visible. Richard raises an eyebrow. “Really, on the job? I know you’re among friends here, but really, a bit of professionalism…” 

With that, he sits down, and so does Arthur, and Eames is left feeling like this has just been the least spectacular event of his life.

***

With all three of them here, the planning can begin. Arthur starts by summarising the situation the way the clients described it. They’ll go over all this again many times, but it’s important that they’re all on the same page. 

“Mandy, Sandy and Brandy Caulfield,” Arthur says. “Triplet sisters, father died when they were nine, mother died only two weeks ago. The will demands that the considerable heritage will be split evenly between the sisters. The twist: Twenty years ago, Sabrina Caulfield’s wedding ring went missing. At the time, she was convinced one of her daughters was responsible, but no one owned up to it. In order to receive the money, the sisters have to present the correct ring to the lawyer.” 

“A parenting lesson from the afterlife,” Eames notes. “Lovely.” 

“Why not just forge the ring?” Richard asks, and Eames looks at him in surprise. It’s a valid question, but it also revealed something he didn’t notice earlier: Richard is British. 

“Apparently there was a special engravement inside that the sisters can’t remember well enough to attempt forging. So it has to be the original. Mandy and Sandy claim they’re innocent, and that it must have been Brandy. Because Brandy also claims innocent, they want us to extract the information. As you already know, I told the Caulfields that we will get the job done within three weeks. It’s a tight schedule, but it’s manageable.”

“So here’s what I’m thinking,” Eames says, tapping a pen against his lip in a steady rhythm. “We go full-on nostalgia. Recreate a situation from their childhood, perhaps, something that connects to happy memories.”

“No,” Arthur cuts in. “Too weak. Remember that this has already happened when she was a kid, she’s had the chance to say something and didn’t.” 

“We’ll forge her parents then. Do a whole guilt-tripping thing. With her mum recently dead, this-“

“No,” Arthur repeats. He’s looking at Eames with a characteristic frown on his face, like he can’t believe what a moron he’s being. “Eames, you’ll have to forge the sisters. Both of you. That’s why we need two forgers. I thought this was obvious.” 

“You must forgive him, Eames, Arthur thinks a lot of things are obvious,” Richard cuts in. Before either of them can react to it, he continues with, “We have enough somnacin for two levels, so let’s do two. One can be a childhood situation. Teenagers would be better, they’re-“

“Truth or dare,” Eames says. Both men turn to look at him. “We forge the sisters, we play truth or dare. A couple questions, give or take, and then we’ll ask what happened to the ring.”

Arthur is getting that glint in his eyes he always gets when something is going better than he hoped. He’s been taking notes throughout the whole conversation; now he closes his notebook and says, “We’ll do that for the second level. What about the first? We need an incentive why she would give us the information.” 

Irritated, Eames says, “I don’t hear you volunteering any useful information so far, Arthur.” 

Like he’s been waiting for a reason to, Richard laughs. Arthur clenches his jaw and doesn’t say anything else, which makes something akin to guilt spark up in Eames – and suddenly, he has it. 

“Are the Caulfields religious?” 

“Roman-catholic. Why?” 

“We’ll simulate a confession. One of us will play the part of the priest, ask her if she’s been keeping any secrets, really imprint on her that lying is a sin. On the second level, she’ll feel bad enough to not even consider lying about the ring.”

This is the way to go, he’s sure of it. 

“Catholic guilt,” Arthur says slowly. “I like it.” 

Richard says abruptly, head angled towards Arthur, “You’re doing the architecture for this one, right? Are you sure this won’t be too much?” 

There’s that jaw-clench again. “I can handle it.”

“I’m just saying, if you don’t feel up for it, better tell us now.”

“I can handle it,” Arthur repeats. 

“Sure,” Richard says, sounding anything but. They get to work, and for the better part of an hour, Arthur’s ears are distinctly pink, and he’s avoiding Eames’ gaze.

***

The Caulfield sisters look almost identical, which makes the forge a fascinating challenge. Eames and Richard decide to split up for the surveillance necessary to study their respective forges: Eames will follow Sandy for a couple days while Richard is studying Mandy’s mannerisms.

They’re in luck: Difficult though the forges may be, it’s a rare luxury that their forges are also their clients, and thus easily accessible. Mandy and Sandy can be persuaded to spend time with them, and so on the next day, Richard drives up to Mandy’s house in Caister Falls while Eames has to take the considerably longer drive to Springfield, Illinois’ capital, which is where Sandy currently lives. 

Richard is at an advantage because the PASIV is, of course, also in Caister Falls, right in the warehouse where Arthur now spends day and night finding out everything there is to know about Brandy Caulfield. Therefore Richard can start practicing his forge on the very second day of the job, while Eames has to wait until his return.

It’s not a big deal, not really: Eames is used to not being able to practice right away, has learned how to catalogue and memorise a person’s behaviour, all their little ticks and quirks, in spite of it. Every forger depends on this, of course, but Eames also knows that he’s the best one. 

What he also knows, however, is that every evening, Richard and Arthur are alone in the warehouse together. Eames is fairly certain that Arthur has no intention of getting back together with his ex, but he also has to admit that Richard is pretty hot – and, of course, British, something that Eames is still not quite over. 

He isn’t sure why this throws him off as much as it does: It’s not like he’s the only British person in Dreamshare, after all. And why wouldn’t Arthur date someone from England?

Maybe, Eames allows himself to think in an unguarded moment, what really bothers him is that if Arthur has a thing for British people, he might have tried it out with Eames first. 

On day 3 of Eames’ trip to Springfield, Arthur calls him just has he’s about to go to bed. 

To this date, throughout almost six years of mutual acquaintance, Arthur has called him exactly two times. 

He called four years ago when Mal died, and two years ago when he was stabbed in the stomach. 

The first call was professional courtesy. Eames has never been able to figure out the reason for the second call. 

Today apparently marks the third. 

Eames answers, dead curious and half-expecting something horrible to have happened. “Got stabbed again?” he asks. 

Silence. It holds for so long that he starts getting worried that Arthur has, indeed, been stabbed, when finally, Arthur says, “No.” 

Eames waits, but nothing else seems to be forthcoming. The whole situation feels like a mockery of Arthur’s late-night visit the other day, without the vis-á-vis bit. 

For a while, neither of them says anything, their breaths the only noise over the line. Eventually, though, Arthur speaks up again. His voice is quiet, dejected. 

“I thought it would be alright. But it’s not.”

Eames doesn’t pretend he doesn’t know what Arthur is talking about. “Cobb said you’ve never dated anyone else.”

“Cobb said _what_? Jesus Christ, what else did he tell you? Maybe the story of how I lost my virginity while he was at it?”

Arthur sounds furious, which is better than that weird angst routine he had going on just a moment ago. 

“Is Cobb in trouble?” asks Eames, delighted. “What a shame. What are you gonna do with that Father of the Year mug you bought as a Christmas gift, now? Maybe you could give it to Sai-“

“Oh my God,” Arthur says, “shut up. I don’t even know why I called you anymore.” 

At some point in the past few minutes, Eames started smiling. “Let’s hang up then,” he says, knowing full well that he won’t be able to just fall asleep after this. 

“Actually,” Arthur says, back to sounding just a little bit off, which is enough for Eames’ smile to fade, “would you mind-“ 

“Mind what?”

“Nothing.”

“Arthur.” 

“Tell me something. Something dumb. I’ve not been sleeping well this week, so if you could just distract me, just for a little while-“ 

Eames hesitates, long enough for Arthur to say, “Sorry, that was – sorry.”

That does it. Arthur rarely apologises, and Eames realises he doesn’t want to hear it again. He says, “So, if you had to pick a superpower, would you rather be 13 % bulletproof or be able to teleport only one foot away?”

***

He returns to Caister Falls four days later, confident now in his ability to forge Sandy Caulfield competently. At this point, Arthur should be more or less done with the first level, so they can start practice runs soon. 

He walks back into the warehouse after his week-long absence at around lunchtime, ready to compare notes. Eames hasn’t been this genuinely excited about a forge in ages -so much can go wrong here that it feels like a proper challenge again, and he cannot wait. 

Perhaps he’s about to voice this sentiment, or maybe he was simply going to make a mundane comment on the weather, but whatever it is, it’s cut short as he sees Arthur, back to him, talking to Richard with agitated gestures. His line of shoulders is rigid in a way Eames has rarely seen it, tension radiating off him in waves. Eames can’t make out what they’re saying, but he does know the exact moment Arthur spots him as he turns around: His face, a second ago exhausted and annoyed, all but lights up in relief. 

While Eames is still marvelling over the fact that this is the most delight Arthur has ever shown about his presence,

Arthur marches up to him, just leaving Richard behind mid-conversation, and says, “Let’s go for lunch.”

Eames, curious beyond measure, obediently follows. On his way out, he can’t resist giving Richard a cheerful wave. Richard frowns. 

They find an empty table at a nearby hipster café, where vintage records are hanging on the walls and customers sit on wooden crates, and where a cappuccino costs five quid. Arthur chose this place, because he inexplicably has a fondness for venues like this one.

A waitress, presumably a college student on spring break, comes over to take their orders before they get the chance to talk about what just happened. Eames orders the special and Arthur asks for a salad, and once the waitress has left,

Eames says conversationally, “You know it won’t kill you to eat something unhealthy every once in a while, hmm?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Arthur, an acidic tone in his voice that Eames has never heard before, with two spots of colour high on his cheeks, snaps, “I wanted a salad, okay? I don’t want a burger, I don’t want a sandwich, I really just want a fucking salad, and I’m so tired of people telling me what they think is best for me. So if you can keep any further comments about my food preferences to yourself, that would be very much appreciated, Eames.”

Eames stares at him. An equally scathing reply is on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down. Something about the look on Arthur’s face stops him. There is a quiet sort of despondency to Arthur that hadn’t been there when Eames had left. 

“You’re right,” he says, ignoring the way Arthur frowns at these words. “It’s none of my business.” 

He doesn’t say that he’s sorry, but he thinks Arthur knows, anyway, because he quietly replies, “Alright.”

They don’t speak much for the remainder of the meal. Eames thinks that maybe Arthur changed his mind about whatever his initial agenda with this impromptu lunch date was. But then their waitress brings them the check, and

Arthur pays for both meals without hesitation before giving Eames the vaguest view of his dimples.

It occurs to Eames that Arthur might have just wanted to get away from his ex for a bit. 

It occurs to Eames that Arthur chose him, of all people, to accompany him. The thought makes him smile all the way back to the warehouse.

***

The first dream-level  is perfect when Arthur takes them for an inspection: A church, modest in a way Catholic churches rarely are, complete with a confessional. Eames thinks that Arthur must have spent at least some of his life as a practicing Catholic, to get the stale, dusty air, and the whole feeling of haughty oppressiveness weighing down on you of it exactly right. It’s not somewhere he’d want to spend any time in, but it’s what they need. 

Richard looks around, lets one hand glide over the wooden pews, and, seemingly satisfied, drops it again. Arthur, who has been watching him for the past minute or so while obviously pretending not to be watching him, redirects his attention towards Eames. 

“Think you can work with that?” 

“Should do,” Eames says. No point showering Arthur in praise – he’s done his job, nothing more. 

Arthur nods and takes them down a narrow staircase into the crypta, where the PASIV is waiting. They went into Eames’ head for the first level; they’ll go into Richard’s for the second. Arthur, as the architect, will be providing the architecture for both levels, but he won’t be the dreamer. This way, if something goes wrong topside, he can just kick himself out of the dream while Richard and Eames will finish the job. 

It also means that he brings his projections along. 

They wake up on a typical suburban street, complete with a playground nearby. A few children are playing, all of them projections, and while Arthur leads the way to the very end of the street, two mothers pushing trolleys are heading in their direction. 

There is no reason yet for the projections to behave in a hostile manner – and, technically, they don’t, not until they’re walking past. When they do, however, one of the mothers bumps into Arthur and hisses, “How dare you, sir.” The other woman glares at him, which Arthur takes in with a frown. 

Eames has worked with Arthur many times over the years. He knows how Arthur’s projections behave, and this is not it.

It’s not even that Arthur usually keeps a tight check on his subconscious – this sort of antagonistic behaviour towards the projections’ owner is nothing Eames has ever seen before. 

It's all a bit worrying, to tell the truth. You don’t want to go into a dream with someone unpredictable; it’s how jobs go wrong. 

Richard must be thinking along similar lines because he says, “Can’t get your projections under control, Arthur?” 

“Richard,” Arthur says tightly. It might be the first time he’s said the man’s name since the initial introduction last week. “You should hurry up. It’s the last house on the street, the big red one.” 

“Is there a reason you’re telling me this when we are, and do excuse my boldness, but when we are _literally walking together_?” 

Arthur, oddly calm, tells him flatly, “If you stay out here any longer, my projections will rip you apart, and I won’t be able to stop them.” 

Richard stares at him, curses, and then they’re all running to safety. 

Inside the house, Eames demands, “What the hell was that?” 

Arthur flinches at the harsh tone of his voice before squaring his shoulders, chin held high, facing both Eames and Richard. “I’m sorry, I’ll work on it.” 

“Oh, excellent. As long as you’ll work on it, that’s just bloody fantastic, right?” 

“I already apologised, what the hell do you want me to do?” 

“An explanation would be a good start,” Eames snaps. “These weren’t normal projections. Normal projections don’t attack their hosts. So what’s wrong with you?” 

“I-“ Arthur starts, stops, swallows, tries again. His next words are clipped, purely informational, every emotion gone from his voice. “They want to attack Richard. I didn’t let them, so they turned on me.”

“So you’re compromised,” Eames says. “I guess your time with Cobb was very inspirational for you, hm? Let me guess: You were so used to working with wonky projections that you just had to create your own? Lovely. Just lovely.”

“Fuck you,” Arthur says. “I can work this job. It was the first time I’ve shared a dream with _him_ in two years. Now I know what to expect, and I can fix it.” Out of nowhere, there is a gun in his hand, now pressed against his temple. Right before he shoots himself out, Arthur adds, “If you ever talk about Cobb like that again, I’ll kill you.” 

A shot rings. Richard and Eames stare at the empty space where just moments ago Arthur has been standing. Finally,

Richard says, “He always did have a flair for the dramatic.” 

Annoyed with Arthur, Richard, the whole sodding job and not least of all himself, Eames says, “Piss off, mate,” and shoots himself in the head.

***

When Eames wakes up, Arthur has already removed the IV-line from his arm and cleaned the wound, and now he’s clutching something, presumably his totem, while decidedly not looking at Eames. That suits Eames just fine – he thinks if Arthur said anything just now, Eames would say something he’d regret. 

A second later, Richard, too, opens his eyes, and clearly he has no such hang-ups: He pulls out the IV and immediately rounds on Arthur. 

“I’m going back to the hotel. If you manage to get your shit together, please don’t hesitate to text me, it’d make a great change.” 

With that, Richard stalks out, and Arthur nods slowly, like he expected this, and returns to his desk. 

Eames hesitates, torn between following Richard or staying here. He’s not especially happy with Arthur right now, but he also remembers the phone call, remembers yesterday’s lunch, remembers the late-night visit. He doesn’t want to abandon Arthur. 

In the end, it’s Arthur who makes the decision for him: 

“Go. I’ll text you tomorrow.”

Eames goes, but not before he drops Arthur’s wallet next to him on the desk. Arthur barely reacts, but Eames thinks he’s trying not to smile. 

The next morning, Arthur is wearing the same clothes as the day before, but when they go down into the dream, not a single projection so much as turns its head, and the dream is perfect.

***

They’ve got less than three days left until the extraction is supposed to take place, and Richard and Eames have started going into practice dreams together, over and over again, driving themselves and each other to make their forges flawless. The first challenge was to work out how to be exactly alike; the second challenge, how to be different, how to be individuals in spite of physical likeness. 

They do this on repeat until finally, they got it. Eames realises that _this is it_ the same moment Richard does, and they spend a minute or so just sort of smiling at each other, relief mingling with joy in that way unique to forgers. 

Finally, Eames says, “You want to do the honours, mate?”, offering Richard a pistol. He doesn’t usually talk to Richard, doesn’t usually share the intimacy that is killing oneself, but he’s so happy right now that he barely thinks about it. 

Richard nods and gets ready. Eames closes his eyes. He’s still smiling. 

Then, Richard says, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you, actually. About Arthur.” 

Eames opens his eyes again. “Go on then.”

“So are you two, like, doing it?”

“Why? Thinking about rekindling the old romance, are you?” Eames keeps his tone light. Richard sounded so honestly curious just now that there really is no reason to get annoyed. No reason at all. 

“Actually,” Richard says with a laugh, placing a hand on Eames’ shoulder in a sort _of we’re-in-this-together_ -gesture, “I just wanted to warn you, if you’re thinking about hitting that. I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

And while Eames is still busy being horrified at how apparently he _looks at Arthur in a certain way_ and also wonders if Arthur noticed, if he’s _that_ obvious, when all his life he’s prided himself on being unreadable, while all of that is still going through his head, Richard informs him, “He’s fun for a quick shag, but anything else? Way too much work.”

Just like that, all the elation Eames has been feeling from the successful forge evaporates. He’s left with the irrational desire to punch Richard in the face – irrational because Arthur can take care of himself, irrational because Arthur specifically asked Eames not to alienate Richard. 

Arthur, Eames thinks, can be a bit of an ass sometimes. 

He says, “Thanks, Richard, that was ever so helpful of you.”

“Just looking out for a mate,” Richard tells him. The worst thing is that he sounds like he means it. Then he finally shoots Eames. 

Eames wakes up in the warehouse to the sight of Arthur on the phone with someone. He’s saying, “-no, I’m busy right now actually – no, with Eames – yes – fine, Jesus Christ, read me the fucking manual then, I’ll figure it out – okay.”

Arthur notices Eames staring at him, mouths _Cobb_ , and rolls his eyes a little before saying “okay, I think you need to start over”. Eames looks from Arthur to Richard, who gives him a friendly smile, and back to Arthur and wonders how anyone could see Arthur and only want him for a _quick shag_ and not as long as Arthur will have them.

***

“Tomorrow at noon,” Arthur announces,  “Brandy Caulfield will go over to Mandy’s house for lunch. I’ve talked to Mandy; she’s going to slip a sleeping pill into Brandy’s drink.” 

“Getting her own sister to roofie her,” Eames comments. “Please don’t ever become a supervillain, Arthur, my heart couldn’t take it.” 

“Don’t worry, he couldn’t stand the rejection of the public,” Richard says. It’s clearly a joke, albeit not a particularly funny one, but it causes Arthur to blush, anyway. Eames thinks he’s never seen Arthur flush red as many times as he has in the past three weeks. Under normal circumstances, he’d enjoy it. 

Arthur clears his throat. “Yes. Right. So, once Brandy is asleep, Mandy will call me. We go inside, we bring the PASIV, then we go under together. Mandy will stand watch, although I feel obliged to inform you that I just gave her that job to make her feel useful and keep her from having doubts. Inside the dream, we proceed as we practiced. We have an hour on each level, which should be more than enough. Any questions?” 

The only question Eames can think of is, _Will you go on a date with me?_

He says, “No questions.”

***

Sometimes, jobs in Dreamshare go tits up. They can work as hard as they want, but there’s no accounting for some risks. Something not showing up in the research can be just as fatal to the extraction as the mark merely having a bad day – and that’s not even including the number of times Eames has been betrayed by the clients themselves. 

The Caulfield-job goes perfectly. It is, in fact, the sort of job one could use as a textbook example of Dreamsharing done right, if one were inclined to write such a textbook, which Eames certainly isn’t. But it goes better than well, it goes without a hitch, and that would be cause for happiness even if this hadn’t been one of the most difficult forges he’s ever had to perform. 

Eames, as the priest, guilt-trips Brandy successfully. On the second level, it barely takes any questioning from Richard as Mandy and Eames as Sandy for her to spill the secret of what happened to the ring. (It’s nothing exciting. Barely a 2 on the family-secret-scale.) 

They wake up and leave together and all go to the warehouse to clean up. On the way there, they take different routes, even though it’s not really necessary for a job like this. Once they've all arrived, Arthur hands out gloves and cleaning supplies and says, “Good job. Both of you.” 

And this would be the kind of thing that’s incredibly condescending, but right now, Eames is still riding the rush of a job well done, so he doesn’t mind, he just says, “You too. You were bloody spectacular, darling.” 

Arthur ducks his head and looks away, which, frankly, is adorable. _I’m going to ask him out_ , Eames thinks. _Tonight, I’m going to ask him out_. 

Then Richard says, very casually, like he’s commenting on the weather, “I wouldn’t compliment him too much if I were you, Eames. Any more and he’s gonna get a hard-on.” 

Arthur freezes. His expression is stony as he says, “Richard, you’ll want to back off here.” 

“Or what?” Richard crosses his arms. “What exactly are you afraid of here? That I’ll tell Eames how much you like being held down in bed? That you like being told how _good_ you’re doing, like you’re some sort of dog? That-“ 

Eames moves before he realises it. One moment he’s standing there, leaning against his desk like he hasn’t a care in the world. The next, he’s backed Richard up against a wall, a gun firmly pressed against Richard’s abdomen. Despite all of that, his tone is still perfectly pleasant as he says, “Yes? Were you saying something?”

Richard glances down at the gun and shakes his head. Eames says, “No, please. Finish your thought. Exercise your right to free speech.” 

Richard manages to say, “Fuck off, you bloody lunatic,” before Eames is hauled back by force, with Arthur freeing him of the gun in the same fluid movement as he pins Eames’ arm behind his back.

They hold the position for a second, giving Richard time to back away from the wall, and then Arthur releases his painful grip. He doesn’t give Eames his gun back, though. 

“Arthur,” Eames says, “I’m a tad confused here. Why-“

“Shut up,” Arthur says. 

“One could say that I’m getting mixed signals,” Eames continues. Arthur, without turning away from Richard, says,

“Eames, I’m serious, shut up for a minute.” 

“Yeah,” Richard says, “shut up, Ea-“ 

Arthur punches him. 

Richard goes down with the force of it. 

A beat. 

Arthur shakes out his hand and says, “This felt better than I thought it would.” 

Slowly, Richard gets back up, a thin trail of blood running from his nose. Eames tenses, readying himself for a fight, but then something odd happens. Richard is looking at Arthur like he’s never seen him before. There is an odd note of _something_ that Eames can’t identify in his voice when he says, “Well, you’re full of surprises.” 

“This job is done,” Arthur tells him, like nothing happened. “Your help for the clean-up is no longer needed. I’ll make sure the payment gets transferred to your account. We’re done here.” 

Richard looks like he thinks about arguing and decides against it. He gathers his things without a word while Eames and

Arthur watch in complete silence. Just before he leaves, Richard looks back at Arthur. “This is why it didn’t work between us, you know,” he says. 

Arthur simply says, “Yes, that’s why.” 

Richard does leave, then, and the two of them get back to work. They don’t talk; Eames feels like any word would be too much right now. Soon, the warehouse is stripped of all evidence that they’ve ever set foot in here. And then, just like that, it’s over. The job is officially, completely done. 

They walk back to the hotel in silence. Eames wonders again whether he should ask Arthur out. He should do it now, before they part ways until Arthur’s next email. 

He doesn’t say anything. Neither does Arthur, not until they’re back in the lobby, which is when he says, simply, “Good night, Eames.” 

Hating himself, Eames replies, “Good night.” 

Right before he enters the elevator, Arthur calls out, “Eames!” 

Eames waits. 

For just a second, he thinks that Arthur might catch up with him. He can imagine it perfectly: Arthur would walk towards him, not quite running, but also noticeably faster than usual, the walk of a man with a plan. He’d put a hand on Eames’ shoulder, a silent question in his eyes, and Eames would kiss him, and they’d forget all this silly business about Richard in between passionate coupling, right there in the elevator, because elevator sex is something Eames has always secretly wanted to try. 

Eames waits, but Arthur stays where he is. He’s a few metres away; he’s a whole world away. Their eyes lock.

For the first time in his life, Eames willingly breaks the eye contact. He thinks that if he doesn’t, his heart might break. 

In the end, it turns out he needn’t have worried. His heart breaks anyway, when the elevator doors close behind him, and Arthur still hasn’t moved.

***

The night after the extraction, there is a knock on the door to Eames’ hotel room right at the cusp of midnight. He opens it, years of criminal experience ensuring he does so with a gun in hand, and finds Arthur in the hallway, for the second time now in three weeks.

Arthur just walks right past him inside the room without so much as a greeting. A bit dazedly, Eames closes the door and turns around to find Arthur taking off his tie. 

“What-“ Eames starts, and stops, because now Arthur is unbuttoning his shirt. Eames feels his mouth go dry at the sight. It’s what he’s wanted for so long. It takes literally all self-control he has not to cross the distance between them and kiss Arthur all over, on every available bit of skin, finally on open display. 

Swallowing hard, he tries again. “What are you doing?” 

“Stripping,” Arthur says, and bends down to untie his shoelaces. He does so in swift, efficient movements, carefully placing the socks inside the shoes afterwards, and then he takes off his trousers, and Eames thinks his brain just exploded. 

“Darling,” he says slowly, while a part of him is screaming that he should stop standing there like an imbecile, “ _why_ are you stripping?”  

Arthur, clad only in underwear now, gives him an exasperated look. Weirdly enough, it’s that look that makes Eames feel better. This must be reality, he reasons, because only the real Arthur could ever look like that. 

“I’m stripping because I thought we might have sex.” 

Eames blinks. “Oh,” he says faintly. Then, because he can’t help himself: “I know you’re not supposed to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I do feel like maybe-“

Arthur kisses him. Cradling Eames’ face in both hands, Arthur kisses him like his life depends on it. Eames lets out a soft moan when Arthur’s hands find their way into his hair. They’re both hard by now; Eames’ cock straining against his trousers reminding him that, unlike Arthur, he’s still fully dressed. He breaks their kiss for just a moment, long enough to mutter against Arthur’s lips, “Just let me-“, and doesn’t finish the sentence because it’s at that moment that Arthur drops to his knees. 

Somehow, in all the hours he’s spent wanking over fantasies of Arthur, he’s never imagined it quite like this: 

Arthur opening Eames’ zipper with shaky fingers, looking up like he’s asking for permission. Eames nodding frantically, and, when Arthur takes him in his mouth, following a flash of inspiration as he tells Arthur he’s “doing so well, just like that, Darling, you’re _gorgeous_ ”, right until he can’t say much of anything anymore except Arthur’s name. 

After, when he returns the favour, he makes sure to kiss his way down Arthur’s body first, finding every mole and every scar, giving attention to every body part except one, until Arthur switches between begging him and cursing his name. He doesn’t last much longer once Eames wraps his lips around his cock, only managing a few messy thrusts before he comes. 

They should take a shower, and probably talk about what this means, but all Eames can think of right now as he lies on the bed, Arthur’s head heavy on his shoulder, is that after all these years, he finally got to have this, got to have _Arthur_.   
The shower can wait, is his last thought before he succumbs to sleep.

***

He wakes up to the sound of a strange ringtone. It takes him a sleepy second to realise that it must be coming from Arthur’s phone, and then another one to understand why Arthur hasn’t taken care of it himself: The shower is on.

Eames sighs and rolls over in the bed to make the noise stop and go back to sleep, but as his finger hovers over the decline-call button, he realises that the caller is Cobb. 

He answers it. 

“Hello, Dominic,” he says pleasantly. 

“Don’t call me that,” Cobb tells him. There is a small pause. Then Cobb says, “Why do you have Arthur’s phone? Is he okay? I knew I should have told you about his shellfish allergy. Listen, you need to tell the hospital that he’s blood type is AB-.” 

Interested despite himself, Eames asks, “Why would that be relevant for an allergic reaction?” 

“I’m buying a plane ticket,” Cobb says with determination. “Might be tough finding a babysitter so soon. Do you think I can leave the kids with the neighbours? I don’t really know them, but it’d probably be okay, right?”

“Er.” 

“Is Arthur awake? Tell him I need to speak to him.” Over the phone, Eames hears the sound of typing in the background, followed by Cobb exclaiming “Aha!”, which is, thankfully, when Arthur steps out of the shower. Sadly, he’s fully dressed; amazingly, he’s dressed in Eames’ sweatpants and shirt, which was something Eames never knew he wanted to see until now. 

Arthur frowns. “Is that my phone?” 

“No, it’s not” Eames says. To Cobb, he says blithely, “Arthur just woke up, and the nurse wants to see me. I’ll talk to you soon.” 

“Wait,” Cobb calls, “what’s the nearest airport?”

Eames hangs up. Arthur hasn’t stopped frowning, but he _has_ come closer to the bed, which Eames counts as a win.

“Was that Cobb? Why were you talking to him?” 

“He thinks you had an allergic reaction and wants to fly in to nurse you back to health.”

“Oh my god, do you _ever_ stop lying?” Arthur says. The question should sting, but he’s also smiling, his dimples betraying the harshness of his words, so Eames finds he doesn’t mind. 

“I was thinking,” he says. The tiniest frown appears on Arthur’s forehead, but Eames knows that he needs to finish this.

“Job’s over. Let’s you and I go somewhere, together. Just take a couple weeks off, see what happens.”

It's a spur-of-the-moment decision, one he hasn’t really thought through at all, but as he speaks the words, he knows it’s what he wants: Not a relationship, not casual sex, just seeing where it goes. 

Together. 

Arthur gives him another smile. Eames wants to kiss him all over; for the first time he realises that he can. Before he can move, though, Arthur holds up Eames’ wallet, looking smug, and says, “I’ve already bought the plane tickets.”

***

They’re just about to go through the airport security when Arthur’s phone rings. He answers it, giving Eames an apologetic look. He doesn’t say much, just makes little noises to indicate that he’s still listening, until he tells the person on the line to “Give me a second,” and half-turns back to Eames. 

Eames knows what Arthur is going to say before Arthur so much as opens his mouth. He knew the moment Arthur chose to listen to the caller instead of hanging up immediately. 

He says, “Take the job.” 

“But-“ Arthur protests. “What about Chile?” 

“Take the job,” Eames repeats. And because Arthur suddenly has that weirdly dejected look on his face, the one Eames has seen several times over the past few weeks, he cups Arthur’s face in his hands and gives him a lingering kiss. When he pulls back, he says, “Come find me when you’re done.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says, which makes no sense, because it’s not like Eames could ever forbid him from working. Then again, Eames thinks that maybe he’s not the only one who’s been worrying about how the future might play out. 

The line is moving, and it will be Eames’ turn soon. He just made a tentative deal to see Arthur soon, but suddenly he finds the thought of going an undeterminable amount of weeks without hearing Arthur’s voice unbearable. 

“Call me, will you?” he says, trying to keep his tone light. “And don’t just call me because you got stabbed this time, alright?” 

“Deal,” Arthur says, gives him one last kiss, and then he’s gone, disappeared in the crowd while an airport security officer calls to Eames to go through the metal detector. 

Seventeen hours later, Eames gets a call just as he's contemplating liberating an old lady of her purse. When he answers it, he hears gunshots in the background, and the sound of people frantically shouting. In spite of all that, Arthur's voice comes clear over the line as he says, “Alright, I know what I promised you, but I swear it was an accident.”

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear what you thought about it. Thanks for reading !


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